


Prayers about Rain

by DawnFelagund



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:04:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1343485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DawnFelagund/pseuds/DawnFelagund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finwë has left his people and chosen exile alongside his son Fëanor. Indis, left behind as his regent, must determine the best course of action for his forsaken people, but her choice to pass the regency to her son Fingolfin seems fraught with peril amidst the divided Noldor. Written for the 2014 Back to Middle-earth Month compilation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prayers about Rain

**Part One. The Mother of Kings.**

**King's Library, Valmar, West Room, Shelf K.35.678**  
Children's rhyme, from _Folklore of the Vanyar, Volume 2_  
Collected and transcribed by Elemmírë of the Vanyar, 1150 YT

Good girls and boys, never speak about gold,  
Never pray to the Valar to not do what you're told.  
Good girls and boys, wish no other person pain,  
Nor ask for silks and satins to whisper in your train.  
Good girls and boys, covet not what others hold  
And never pray for what another will never see sold.  
Good girls and boys, speak not for your own gain  
And never occupy the Valar with prayers about rain.

~oOo~

Indis lay rigid in her bed in the queen's chamber and listened for rain. It was the Mingling. The Light softened the edges of the carved wood furniture the way an artist can gently blur with her thumb the edges of something drawn ordinary and make it soft and surreal, but Indis didn't notice the Light; she listened. It wasn't raining—at least, she heard no rain falling, nor water dripping from the eaves. At this hour, the streets were silent. She could hear herself breathing. Palms pressed to the bed, she pushed herself suddenly upright and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

It wasn't raining.

The clouds were low but that was fine: They intensified the mingled Light in a way that coaxed the colors from the slumbering city that, since the departure of Finwë, had seemed hushed in both sound and hue. She couldn't help but note the brilliance of the blue in her eldest son's banner, which was hanging conspicuously off-center upon the front of the palace. She wanted the colors to be vivid today; she wanted the banners to snap upon a vigorous breeze (so far, they lay limp, but the wind tended to calm during the Mingling); she wanted every flower to unfurl and nod heavily on the vine as though nature itself sanctioned this day and bowed before her son on the day that he accepted the crown of the King of the Noldor.

The day was not yet as she wished, but there was a tint of promise. Even as she watched, the low gray clouds tore briefly and admitted a stripe of eggshell blue before closing upon it again. Yes, the day had promise.

Finwë had had one of the closets off the queen's chamber converted into a prayer room to surprise her after their marriage. Indis divested herself of her silken nightgown and shrugged into a plain white prayer tunic. She bound her hair under a cap and knelt before the plain stone altar. She pressed her hands flat upon the cool stone and let her face tip forward until the edge of the altar left an impression upon her forehead. Her grandmother had taught her how to pray. Prayers are not words, Indis, she'd said; they are a welling up of gratitude, no matter the circumstance. Never pray in words and you will never make demands when you should give thanks.

Indis imagined the clouds wearing thin, that flash of blue the color of her gratitude, the clouds closing tight again like lips sealing up a secret.

~oOo~

**Tirion Archive, Letters Collection, Letters of Nerdanel Istarnië**  
Letter #456 to Indis of the Vanyar, late summer, 1490 YT

CURATOR'S NOTE: The first page of the letter was damaged beyond recognition when tea was spilled upon the page. The second and third pages were salvaged with minor obliterations.

unseemly. I naturally do understand what you are trying to accomplish; I merely urge caution when acting amid a people that often seek reason for umbrage. Your people often seem much more inclined to assume a benevolent motive; you have surely realized that mine do not, and my husband has most unfortunately stirred those embers to conflagration that only wants breath to grow hands enough to grab anything flammable within reach.

I feel it is not my place to advise you, as my mother-in-law (as you know I have always regarded you, my husband's views of that honorific notwithstanding), but you have asked, and I do empathize with your situation as one who is still newcome, relatively speaking, to this city and this people; indeed, I feel I am not yet accustomed to them even having been born in their midst. So I will ignore my qualms about propriety and offer what you ask. Naturally, Nolofinwë must be invested by the Valar in order to wield sovereignty; that I do understand. But I advise you not to use your husband's crown; it is of Fëanáro's making and is of ███████████████████████████████s faction. Many are the craftsmen who could make a crown anew; pu███████████████████ and have one made that ████████████y with it the associations that the █████████████████████

I would advise a modest affair, held in autumn (there will surely be no pressing business in these final days of summer that will require Nolofinwë's immediate investiture?). I advise no new gowns or robes or jewels. Keep the guest list small and the feast modest. I advise Finwë's great hall; it is not so great as to admit a number of guests that some will see as obscene. Do not go to Taniquetil.

Will it to rain! There could be no greater blessing upon your son's coronation! For in that, the jealous of the Noldor will see a portent in the common weather of autumn and, in their crowing over the significance of that, may forget or forgo resentment of what they will term your audacity. (I realize that there is a tradition among the Vanyar against the praying to withhold rain; does this extend proscriptions against prayers for rain?)

I do wish for t██████████████████████████ to the contrary. I remain your loving daughter and in service to the re████████████████finwë,

Nerdanel Istarnië

~oOo~

**King's Library, Valmar, West Room, Shelf K.35.677**  
"Boast upon the Birth of Princess Indis," from _Folklore of the Vanyar, Volume 1_  
Collected and translated by Elemmírë of the Vanyar, 1150 YT

Forth from her went lanterns down, down into the dark.  
Before recollection of her face was flushed the shadow.  
She was swift of foot.  
She was golden as Laurelin.  
She was steadfast and bore ice like an ancient tree unbowed.  
She was the mother of kings.

~oOo~

Indis's mother had been big with Indis, her first child, and had just entered the vigil of her confinement when her youngest sister Irimë had brought forth the ascetic. It was an old tradition, the vigil of the confinement and the singing of a boast to the unborn child by an ascetic; King Ingwë didn't approve of what he termed the heathen faith, carried over from the Outer Lands, but he liked even less displeasing his sisters, and so he did not bar his doors to the skeletal foreteller who would sing of his imminent niece's virtues.

"So long as you understand," cautioned Ingwë to his sisters, "that birds can be trained to bob and whirl for a scattering of grain, believing through coincidence that these actions are related to the satiation of their lust; the traditions of the Outer Lands developed likewise." His sisters bowed their heads and, in somber voices, proclaimed him wise and said they understood. They kept their eagerness, their giddy speculations, for each other and the confinement chamber where Ingwë did not go.

The ascetic normally kept to the cold north and far west, near the halls of Mandos, and deprived his body of food and sleep to—or so he explained to Indis's wide-eyed mother, her belly swelling from the bed like an island from the sea, and the clutch of female relatives crowded upon the bed to keep vigil with her—approach the halls of the dead, whereupon he pressed his ear to the wall (he pantomimed that) and could hear some of what Námo Mandos spoke to Vairë the Weaver of the future. He had heard them whisper of Indis, he assured them, a bony finger pointing to each of them in turn. He was wearing a gray tunic that had been deprived of its sleeves long ago and torn down one side, showing very prominent ribs _and_ one of his nipples. Indis's Aunt Irimë always mentioned those particular details. He had hairy armpits and he stunk of not having changed his underpants for a while, if indeed he wore underpants at all. He was given a crust of bread as payment, which he twisted in his hands as though trying to resist eating it. He twisted and swayed, and his eyes rolled back into his head, and he spoke what would come to be termed the "Boast upon the Birth of Princess Indis," with all its noble, high-flown sentiments and its prediction that she would be a "mother of kings."

Indis was destined to be disappointed. When she was only a young girl—golden-haired and swift of foot as predicted, binding her braids off her neck as she hurried to a footrace—she paused long enough to glance at one of the prominent paintings in her uncle's main hall. She stopped. The tiny brass tag beneath (she would later realize) titled the painting as "Finwë Strides Ashore"; Finwë wore boots to his knees (not an affectation of the Vanyar) and his hair unfettered, and a stripe of light sprang forth from his upraised hand. It was a sword, but Indis was innocent of such knowledge then. She thought he'd caught a star in his palm to light his way through the Outer Lands and it was zipping home, now that he no longer needed it, having arrived in Valinor. A painting unnoticed to that point never failed to slow her steps after that. She wondered, footfall by footfall, where he had strode after striding ashore that first time. She came to know that he was one of the other Eldarin kings, but she had not yet been presented, and so she never saw him, even as she heard the servants at times bustling to prepare for the arrival of "King Finwë and Queen Míriel."

Yet as she grew, he was never far from her thoughts: she, the mother of kings, and he who strides ashore and nabs the stuff of stars easy as swiping a grasshopper from a nodding blade of grass. Their story, as she imagined it, had the slow, grinding insistence of fate, and in her youth, Indis imagined herself patient. This was less so as she came of age and was presented at court and found each of a seemingly endless line of suitors decidedly _un_ suitable. She was disappointed. She knew by now of King Finwë and his wife Míriel Þerindë; she saw them at feasts and festivals and even sat with them sometimes at her uncle's more intimate tables. She knew by now the laws regarding marriage and that the ascetic had been wrong; her fate was not as the mother of kings but one of those strange fates spoken of in the philosophers' debates on the effects of Arda Marred. The boast sung annually on her begetting day by her mother and her aunts rang false.

Finwë walked everywhere with the same purposefulness as he strode ashore in the painting. Indis imagined him on the Great Journey, before he'd met Míriel, with the underbrush of the forest bowing to make way before him; the thorns clutching his flesh but unable to keep him. Indis forgot the scarf for her hair so that she had the excuse of crossing the courtyard again to look upon him. He was reading a parchment given him by her uncle the High King; he was pacing as he read it, having walked that morning on the snowy tops of the mountains and still clad in cloak and boots, uncrowned, with an aura of fresh, wild spaces still clinging to him. She kept to the shadows of the peristyle as was proper and so not to disturb him, but he saw her anyway and paused in his reading to incline his head and say, "Princess Indis." He did not return to his parchment until she'd passed.

Along with the others of her house, she celebrated the birth of his firstborn son not long after and was introduced to one of his lords there and began the appropriate correspondence, which she maintained for a suitable interval before allowing her efforts to dwindle. The lord's efforts dwindled to match. In the midst of this, she was privy to nothing of what happened with the Queen of the Noldor; she remarked once to her mother that it was odd that the Noldorin king and queen did not bring their sweet son to the halls of the Vanyar and was rebuked for not understanding the difficulties brought by an infant. But at the feasts of summer, Finwë's throne stood vacant and none spoke of it, and the boy was not presented as he should have been. Something was amiss.

Until, one day, suddenly and without warning, he returned.

A sudden rainstorm arose that day. Indis was out walking; it was a pursuit still allowed to her by a mother perplexed at her spinster daughter's apparent undesirability, and she made frequent use of this liberty in order to escape the court and take the counsel of her own thoughts. She was no longer allowed to run, but she could walk briskly through untrammeled vegetation if she wished. She had been trying to avoid the painting of late but found herself thinking of it as she took shelter from the rain in a vine-covered gazebo; her legs ached, and her dress was stained, and she was thinking of the Great Journey and what it must have been like to fall in line behind that broad, strong back and to watch starlight leap forth from his hand. She imagined that to follow him would erase a good bit of weariness and pain. She was singing idly "Boast upon the Birth of Princess Indis" when she realized she was not alone and the final line died in her throat.

_the mother of kings_

He strode no longer but stood motionless on the mountainside, gazing down at Ezellohar below, so still that the creepers might have covered him as they might a neglected statue. His back was turned to her. His braids had been made very neat by some hand not his own; he wore golden ornaments that she had never seen before at the end of each. He was very deliberately clad as a king. The rain whispered against the underbrush for a long time before he let his chin turn toward his shoulder and he said, "Do not stop singing on my account."

When the rain subsided, she showed him the way of least resistance up the mountain. He leaned on a stick wrested from a tree; a few withered leaves still clung to it. When they came within sight of the palace, she hung back. "You must go ahead without me—it is not proper—I cannot—"

"I would have you appear with me in my tradition," he said and tucked her hand in his arm. "There will be no trouble. I will explain to your uncle, and he will not deprive a guest the comfort of his own familiar ways."

He would afterwards say that he knew not when he heard her singing but when the last line died as it did upon her lips that she loved him. "And it was like my first sight of the stars, which led me to believe that life need not always be led in darkness. So realizing your love for me made me believe that life need not always be endured in grief."

~oOo~

**King's Library, Valmar, South Room, Shelf R.17.51**  
From "The Statute of Finwë and Míriel," translated from Valarin by Rúmil of Tirion, 1172 YT

NOTE: "The Statute of Finwë and Míriel" being considered a foundational legal and philosophical document of the Eldar in Aman, many copies were produced from the original translation of Rúmil. The original text is located at the Tirion Archive in the special collection devoted to the writings of Rúmil, item #488.

Marriage is for life, and cannot, therefore, be ended, save by the interruption of death without return. While there is hope or purpose of return it is not ended, and the Living cannot therefore marry again. If the Living is permitted to marry again, then by doom Mandos will not permit the Dead to return. For, as has been declared, one reborn is the same person as before death and returns to take up and continue his or her former life. But if the former spouse were re-married, this would not be possible, and great grief and doubt would afflict all three parties.

~oOo~

Indis would not be disappointed.

The snow slid sometimes from the tall peaks of the Pelóri. It began with a groan as soft as settling to repose; it began with tendrils of snow tickling their way down the mountain. And then all at once the side of the mountain fell and none could withstand the rush of its passing. So was her fate at last: sluggish in starting but sudden in its realization, and none could withstand its passing.

Of course, she had to affect helplessness, for it would not have seemed proper to pursue a man much less a king, and would have been unspeakable to seem to work for the ousting of his dying wife. But in this she needn't worry, for with a desire again in his mind worth pursuit, Finwë discarded the stick and no longer sought the way of least resistance but pushed forward with the vigor she'd imagined of him crossing the Outer Lands, and none dared hinder him.

Indis's family disapproved yet could find no fault in her, and she took care to keep it as such. On the day that Finwë spoke before the council of the Valar, she sat with her mother and her aunts, observing a day of silence and embroidering infant's clothing for a distant relative's impending delivery. For three days after, she made no inquiries, though her uncle's disapproval was such that Finwë did not come to the palace at all until the fourth day, when the doors to Ingwë's study remained sealed shut through early afternoon, messengers were turned aside, and the rumor at last arrived that whatever council was held behind those doors had culminated in a stiffly formal tea with King Finwë. Yet still no word came, and Indis kept to her apartments and sang with her duenna accompanying her on the harp and arranged offerings of flowers to Vána.

Fireflies flared against the silver light of Telperion's waning as Indis went to make her offering in the garden. She was not praying for her uncle's approval; she was giving thanks for the flowers on the mountainside. She placed the first of the arrangements appropriately on the altar. Her duenna was perched upon a rock ledge and playing a delicate song upon her harp. Indis turned for the next bunch of flowers, but they were setting back along the path and out of reach; odd, for she'd left them just behind her and within easy reach. She fetched them and placed the second upon the altar and turned for the third. They were back again upon the path, even further this time from where she'd left them. She turned to her duenna, who remained sitting with her back to Indis. The light faded further, and the song swelled. There was nothing to fear in the garden; no need for vigilance. Indis was as close as an unmarried noblewoman ever came to being alone. She started back down the path but took only the needed bunch of flowers this time. When she arranged it and turned back for the others, they had moved back yet further and lay against the base of a birch tree. Upon silent feet, Indis crept to the tree.

Her duenna began to sing at the moment that Finwë pressed Indis to the birch tree and kissed her. Even through underskirts and brocades, the way his body fitted against hers excited her. She had never been touched by a man not a relative: His hand cupped her face, his tongue flicked against her lips, his hips crushed against hers. Her back arched, her hips lifted without her willing it. She opened her mouth to his. He was wearing a simple tunic, opened at the throat, and her fingertips pressed against his bared flesh for a brief moment before a warbling note from her duenna brought the gravity of what she did abruptly upon her, and she withdrew the fingers as though burned. He kissed her lips one final chaste time before the shadows claimed him again and she was left to slow her heaving breath and stoop to gather the flowers that remained to leave for her offering.

The snow slipped down the mountain, slipped away beneath her very feet and took her with it. Trembling hands arranged the final flowers for the offering; her gratitude was no longer for flowers. _Thank you for him but … do not let it stop here!_ One should never pray for oneself; it was the first and only time she did.

It happened fast after that.

With the permission of the Valar granted, even her Uncle Ingwë could not be displeased by her betrothal, although it required some effort to arrange their faces and their notions of propriety to make room for such an unprecedented engagement. Finwë was not so warmly welcomed at the palace of the High King, and conversations faltered when Indis brought her workbasket into the room, but the Valar had spoken, and dissent was therefore impossible. The engagement proceeded strictly according to the Vanyarin tradition; her father, in a rare show of autonomy, would not consent to give her hand without Finwë agreeing to such. They saw each other only in the company of others, at best taking tea together with her duenna and one of Finwë's lords. He was allowed the first dance with her at festivals but none after. She covered her hair in his presence and eschewed jewels; he wore gloves; neither was permitted to speak the other's familiar name.

Indis was kept busy with the wedding preparations and was grateful for the little time afforded to think of him. But often as she crossed the main hall, exhausted, on her way back from a fitting or a consultation or a visit to one of the myriad temples surrounding Valmar (all of which required offerings on the occasion of her marriage), she would falter before Finwë's painting and she would remember those few moments behind the birch tree in the garden, the touch of his body and the taste of his mouth, a forbidden act that delivered to her the news that she was at last granted permission to fulfill her fate, and the thought would spring upon her that, soon, it would be permitted—indeed expected—to touch him like that whenever she pleased, and she would retire to her room to undress slowly and imagine that.

What dissolution occurred between Finwë and Míriel Þerindë, Indis was not told, and of it, she did not inquire. On the day of the wedding, she and Finwë spoke the words like any other before Manwë and Varda, and Indis was crowned the Queen of the Noldor by her uncle. The little boy, Fëanáro, was not there; Indis wondered about him but feared to ask and was soon swept up by the progression of ceremony, coronation, and feast that he faded from her mind. As Telperion brightened into night, she was borne away by a company of handmaids to Finwë's bedchamber, where they undid her elaborate costume and lowered her coifed hair so that the curls, carefully preserved, lay loose upon her shoulders. One by one, they left, taking pieces of her wedding costume with them, until only her duenna remained to perform her last act in that role by lowering the nightgown over Indis's nakedness. And then, with the sound of a key twisting in the lock, Indis was alone.

She could hear the music still from the feast downstairs and an occasional peal of laughter that suggested that wine service was ongoing and the feast far from ending. She looked upon herself in the mirror, but in doing so, she imagined Finwë doing the same and felt frightened and ashamed, for the sheer nightgown hid little of her body, of which he'd seen naught but her hands and face for a year now. She went to the bed and climbed the steps to lie upon it. She had received no instruction but had found and looked at some books and arranged herself in a way that she hoped would appear beguiling. The room was hot, and the barest touch of the nightgown upon her fevered skin was nearly unbearable.

The key scratched in the lock.

As he undressed, Finwë's eyes never strayed from her. He said nothing, and she wondered if she was supposed to speak or sing or do something particular to entice him. It would likely be over fast, she imagined, and wasn't sure if she should be grieved or consoled by that. Naked, he came to the bed and climbed up to lie beside her.

She knew not how much time passed before Finwë poised himself over her open and willing body, having coaxed pleasures unimagined from every inch of her naked flesh, and at last consummated their marriage. And still he was slow, cupping her face in his large and rough hands to watch her eyes as they changed with the acceptance of his _fëa_ and another new pleasure, to watch her lips form his name yet again—forbidden for a long year—now spoken as a gasp, a moan, a shout loud enough that she was grateful for the ongoing noise of the party downstairs.

The light of Telperion was fading. He lay at her back, his arm circling her waist and his lips pressing a slow line of kisses down the back of her sweat-dampened neck. Her curls were wilted, the nightgown crushed and discarded upon the floor; the embers of her desire faded into sleep. She dozed in his arms and awoke with a start, in the dimmest hour just before the Mingling, to realize that she hadn't watched his eyes change with the consummation of their marriage. That was the euphemism for sex and for pleasure when Indis was a girl: watching a man's eyes change as he became a husband. In the throes of her own pleasure, she had missed it—but then she realized that his wouldn't have changed. He'd already been married. The entire night, she realized, had not been a consummation so much as a construction: Something fashioned for her benefit from what he'd learned from becoming a husband and a father with Míriel, so as to distract her from the certain realization of what she'd lost in marrying him. The enactment of their marriage would but continue what he'd learned with Míriel. Though exhausted by the excitement of the long day, she nonetheless remained awake for the rest of the night.

**Part Two. An Ancient Tree Unbowed.**

**Tirion Archive, Letters Collection, Letters of Queen Indis the Fair**  
Letter #126 from King Finwë to Queen Indis the Fair, early summer, 1490 YT

Dearest:

I have left the regency with you and so do not expect to be consulted. Having been firmly told that I am not empowered to wield authority within my own family, then I likewise withdraw any claims to authority over the Noldorin people. I am exercising my sovereignty over a patch of beans in Fëanáro's garden, but even those are willful and wilt in the drought and refuse to climb the trellis.

This is all I shall say. My appointment of you as regent was not without consideration. You are aligned with me in the minds of our people. They do not see you as part of a faction but as a sovereign through your uncle and Noldorin through your union with me: in short, their Queen.

I remain, in exile, your husband,

Finwë of Formenos

~oOo~

Four specialists, Indis was told at breakfast, were upon the Mindon Eldaliéva with glasses and other instruments to monitor the skies and the winds and to assess the likelihood of rain. They could not agree on their conclusions, the messenger explained, but would send message soon, when they did.

"Rain or no, there is not much to be done now," said Nolofinwë, sipping his tea with well-trained soundlessness. She'd invited him to breakfast with her on the day of the coronation, in the tradition of a lord passing title onto his heir. He plunked his cup down a bit too hard into the saucer. "We cannot reschedule the coronation, and it would probably rain on that day too, even if we did. It is autumn and the rainy season."

Such was a typical statement of her eldest son, who had learned to expect disappointment in the shadow of his elder brother and in his constant and unsated thirst for precedence in the eyes of his father.

"We cannot reschedule the coronation, Nolofinwë." Indis had learned to be firm in her speech since assuming regency after her husband's departure. Once—not so long ago; she could barely remember when—she had always looked to the man of highest authority in the room after saying anything; Finwë had pointed it out to her early in their marriage. If today wasn't proof that she'd learned to command rather than to merely accept and follow—an effort made to prove her willingness to assume the Noldorin culture—then she didn't know what would be. "We must make do with what the Valar grant us. But I would have us prepared for all eventualities."

That wasn't it, but she couldn't reveal the full truth, not to her eldest son, who'd dedicated himself to the most brutal of Noldorin logic in his study of governance. She couldn't confess to lingering superstitions from her youth, superstitions that concerned the divination of the approval or disapproval of the Valar in such everyday matters as weather signs or the flight patterns of birds or the rhythm of the waves on the shore. The Valar knew that today was the day that she relinquished her regency to her eldest son; the invitations had gone out weeks ago. Several Valar would be in attendance. Indis knew not to make prayers about rain, but it seemed reasonable to assume that if they approved of her actions, they would withhold the rain. If it rained—perhaps they disapproved, or perhaps they did not perceive the matter weighty enough to justify alteration of the usual weather patterns. The latter possibilities, after all she'd been through, seemed unbearable to consider.

She had planned the day's coronation herself—she was regent; it was within her power to do so—and all decisions pointed to what she hoped the day would symbolize. The coronation was to be held under the open sky (hence the need for a day without rain) to represent her lack of shame in appointing an appropriate leader after the departure of her husband the king. Let all who would gaze upon the proceedings, Elda and Vala both. It would be held at the sward, just beyond the city gates, not in the halls of Manwë, where Ingwë, Finwë, and Olwë had been each crowned in turn. There would be no perimeter placed around the proceedings, even of decorative ribbon. Let all who would attend enter freely and observe with their own eyes and ears what rumor would otherwise describe. Those Valar who would attend would come to them, not the other way around. Let that stand as proof that the queenship of Indis of the Vanyar hadn't inexorably yoked the Noldor to obedience to the Valar. And if people wished her mild insolence to represent all she dared as rebuke for the meddling of the Valar in her husband's management of the conflict between his eldest sons, then she would not dissuade them. (All the more reason to keep secret her thoughts about rain.)

And let her use of her husband's crown declare that she believed her son to be a worthy king, that his long years of study and toil in his father's court placed him equal to the rights of Fëanáro, who possessed the right of succession alone.

Finwë was certain of his people's acceptance of her as their queen and believed that they would tolerate her as regent through his exile. Indis did not share this certitude. She spoke in committees and councils and was listened to but for reasons of deference to her husband, not because she said anything worth hearing. Their attentiveness was carefully constructed of folded hands in laps, eyes unblinking, chins lifted enough to be described as alert; ironically, she realized, they might have learned this from her. She knew the raucousness of her husband's councils, and there was none of that here. There was respectful silence before they departed from the chamber to speak quietly in small groups that drifted into the night like embers from a dying flame, and where they came to rest and kindle anew was not for her to know. She had no doubt that the studies and drawing rooms of royal Tirion swelled with conversation as once had her husband's halls, but this was not for her to hear.

"Perhaps you should show more of an interest in everyday habits of the Tirion Noldor," Arafinwë suggested gently once. Arafinwë sensed her unease—and delved its root cause—even through her careful poise that deflected the suspicions of all others. So Indis went into the streets of lower Tirion, to the shops and the studios and the forges. She walked into one—a coppersmith, with copper vines twisted supplely around his doorframe—to watch him at work but was caught around her waist by the master craftsman and conversed with outside, "where it was safer." She returned with unsmudged attire, having been humored by Noldor in a multitude of trades, who expressed honor at her presence but passed too quickly the bellows and the benches to display for her fine items that they urged her to take. Such had not been her purpose in going. She returned disappointed.

And there was one shop, the gemsmith who had made the jewels for Turukáno's wedding—formerly an apprentice of Fëanáro by the name of Vorondil—whom she stopped to see particularly, having deeply admired his work and wanting to converse especially with those whom she knew to be followers of her stepson, and found a sign upon the shut door in elaborate and smiling calligraphy: "Gone into exile!" These signs dotted doors throughout the sections of the city where loyalty to her stepson prevailed.

"Yes, there is a scribe who specialized in making them," Nolofinwë said matter-of-factly when she dared mention the signs. "They all imagine themselves off on a grand adventure, traipsing across the wilds of the Outer Lands in defiance of the Dark Lord rather than wandering safely off to Formenos under the vigil of and tepid protest toward the Valar. Let them have their fantasy and the people of Formenos profit from their labor." He could not hide the bitterness in his voice.

And those who remained behind? They manifested no sign, no badge, no banner; they went about their work, and if the city was quieter without the followers of Fëanáro, then they made no comment. Their lives were suspended in a hiatus imposed by her husband when he chose to go into exile and leave behind as regent his wife of Vanyarin blood and no political training. They were expected to wait and, for love of him—for the king who had strode from Eressëa before the island was full-anchored, crossing with a bold step the last swash between himself and Aman, a star leaping from his hand—they did.

~oOo~

**Tirion Archive, Letters Collection, Letters of Queen Indis the Fair**  
CURATOR'S NOTE: The following two drafts, unsent, were found among the personal papers of Queen Indis the Fair. The third letter fragment was sent and found among the ruins of Formenos.

Letter #127A (DRAFT) from Queen Indis the Fair to King Finwë, early summer, 1490 YT

Dearest:

I beg you to see the injustice you place upon your people. No. I will beg no longer. If you will not see, then I will exercise my authority to mitigate what harm I may.

I argue not for the justice of what the Valar have done but you have removed yourself from Tirion and from your duties on your own volition; none have driven you thence. You leave behind—me? One not of their people, one neither raised nor taught to rule, with the flimsy fact of our marital affiliation as reason to place their lives and the progress of a vivacious and active people on hold. I suppose you imagine that you teach a lesson to the Valar; I suppose you expect that they will suffer to see your people suffer, but you know not their ways and fully comprehend not what you do. In this, I am wiser than you, although I yet do not count myself wise. You neither pray for rain nor the cessation of it; it is not our place—even as the kings and the queens of our people—to presume our petty affairs worth the attention and efforts of the mighty much less the reworkings of the ways of the world on our behalf.

You leave me with full authority, including the right to relinquish my own regency, and that I will do. I will place our son on the throne who has labored for the whole of his life in the study of the craft of kingship. No, he seems not sprung from legend like you and your mighty son, but he has labored long and largely unrecognized to achieve what you have not and what Fëanáro certainly has not: the skill of a king who views the leadership of his people as an art rather than a staged show and fortuitous happenstance. You have strove hard not to see this; you have seen all the good in Fëanáro and overlooked anything of the same in Nolofinwë. You

Letter #127B (DRAFT) from Queen Indis the Fair to King Finwë, early summer, 1490 YT

Dearest:

You know full well what you bestow upon your people when you name me your regent and expect them to abide languishing in my reign for the full of your chosen exile. I do not want to believe that you made your selection from spite and a desire to see your people suffer out of a mistaken assumption that to do so would cause similar suffering among the Valar. It will not. The affairs that command our lives and our loves are to them like the withering of a dandelion in the crack of the footpath: barely cause for notice and too small for lamentation. I am neither of your people, nor have I been taught to rule, but I've compassion enough to not wish to see a vibrant people wither under one possessed of good intentions but no skill as a queen. The injustice of the Valar will not be undone by further injustice.

Our son, though, has long studied the art of kingship—for it is an art, and one that neither you and especially not your firstborn son possess. He has done so despite a complete lack of attention or accolades from you or any other, aside from myself. It is my intention to relinquish my regency to Nolofinwë. Under his care, the Noldor will again thrive and perhaps the wounds your firstborn son has caused will begin to knit. Should you oppose me in this, you may return to Tirion at any time and resume your throne, and Nolofinwë will again take due place in the shadows.

I remain your obedient wife,

Indis, Regent and Queen of the Noldor

Letter #127C from Queen Indis the Fair to King Finwë, early summer, 1490 YT

Dearest:

It is my intention, after the passing of the harvest festivities this autumn, to relinquish my regency to our son Nolofinwë. You will surely understand that he ████████████████████████████

I remain your obedient

CURATOR'S NOTE: Most of the page upon which the very brief Letter #127C was scribed was obliterated in the fire from the ravages of Melkor upon the House of Curufinwë Fëanáro in Formenos.

~oOo~

It would have seemed meddlesome and indecorous to appear too interested in the activity as the sward was prepared for the coronation. The palace was near-silent. Nolofinwë had returned to his own home, where the tailor would make the final adjustments to his coronation robes and his wife and children would dress. A messenger came from the Mindon as Laurelin deepened in the afternoon to say that, while they were not wholly certain, the four specialists in the tower did not suspect rain.

The northernmost tower in the palace was conveniently placed to allow a view of the path extending from the northern gates and the sward beyond. Indis rummaged the clutter of scientific equipment in the room that her stepson had occupied before her marriage to his father (and Fëanáro's leavetaking for a conveniently timed apprenticeship with Aulë in the far north of Aman) and found a dusty glass that would allow as good an inspection of the activity upon the sward as if she'd been present herself.

The windows in the northernmost tower were uncovered, and the wind speared through them. Indis wrapped herself in a shawl and studied the sward through the glass. There was the dais, already assembled, its festoons of flowers being primped by the same florist she had used at her wedding. It was round so as to be approached on all sides, symbolizing openness. There were five high seats: five Valar coming. The seat that would belong to her uncle, and to Olwë. She marked each place of honor for her family. Potted rose trees were placed throughout with lanterns in their branches to encourage lingering into the silver hours. Several servants were manicuring them with tiny silver shears.

At the edge of the festivities, tents were being erected. The possibility of rain must have been stronger than the messenger implied. Or perhaps not. The tents were few and small and all with open sides (as she had insisted).

"My Queen?" Her lady in waiting stood at the top of the steps, her gown bunched in her hands and her forehead furrowed. "It is time to dress."

~oOo~

Palace of the High King, Valmar, Taniquetil  
"Finwë Strides Ashore" (gallery #43), 1152 YT  
oil on canvas  
Tanocarmë of Tirion (artist)

CURATOR'S NOTE: This painting was done in the early Noldorin style with the strong brushstrokes reminiscent of work with primitive pigments upon stone. Tanocarmë of Tirion was one of the first to master the human form, displaying both proportional accuracy and suggestive strength of movement. The painting was controversial for its inclusion of the sword in the hand of Finwë, which the Valar begged the painter to remove before the painting was publicly displayed. High King Ingwë, for whom the painting was a particular favorite, pled that it not be changed, citing reason of historical accuracy and the particular vigor and boldness of King Finwë, an ancient friend. His request was honored, and it hangs in his Great Hall. It has become a place of pilgrimage for the Noldor, who leave flowers wrought from gold in memory of King Finwë, whom they proclaim their greatest king.

~oOo~

The northernmost tower in the palace was conveniently placed to allow a view of the path extending from the northern gates and the sward beyond. The last that Indis had climbed to its wind-speared heights had been under very different circumstances.

She awoke with a start on the morning that Finwë left, having dreamt of him kissing her lips and then receding from her chambers. She knew not what caused her to take to the stairs of the tower in her nightgown. Up and up the stairs swirled in their tight confines. She normally made her way slowly, with gown tucked up and hands pressed to either wall, to forget her terror of the long fall behind her. She did none of these things this time. She stumbled once and slipped down three and rubbed the skin from her forearm and knee. It slowed her not.

The morning fog was breaking. Laurelin was sickly pale in Her first hour.

He had threatened to depart. She had insisted that he was neither so foolish nor cruel to the people he loved. To her. (Whom he loved?)

Two figures waited upon the sward, on horseback. The fog obscured what she might have observed of their features; she noted only that one was very tall and both were cloaked.

A third figure emerged from the gate, also on horseback, riding fast to join them. The mist muffled all sound, and the horse galloped soundlessly, as though in a painting.

She could yet remember how deeply she'd loved him. She remembered watching him at her uncle's table. Kissing him beneath the birch in the garden. The day, the night of their wedding. Telling him over breakfast that she was with child. Nolofinwë's birth. Dancing with him at the harvest festival, leading the first dance. Drinking too much Telerin sweetwine on their visits to Alqualondë. Making love on the sand. Racing him in the hallways of the palace to prove her swiftness of foot and screaming with laughter and sitting for him to paint her and inventing songs to cheer him and

Her knees buckled beneath her. The mist did not dampen the sounds of her sobs, and even the wind through the windows died as though listening. But the three figures galloped off in silence.

~oOo~

King's Library, Valmar, South Room, Shelf R.17.51  
From "The Statute of Finwë and Míriel," translated from Valarin by Rúmil of Tirion, 1172 YT

"Love of Indis did not drive out love of Míriel; so now pity for Míriel doth not lessen my heart's care for Indis. But Indis parted from me without death. I had not seen her for many years, and when the Marrer smote me I was alone."

~oOo~

A crimson carpet extended from the gate, crossed the sward, and ended at the dais. The gathered people crumpled before the majesty of Queen Indis the Fair. She walked slowly and, every now and then, let her hand graze the cheek of a child. The whisper of her gown against the carpet was louder than the sound of her feet clad in silken slippers. She met people's eyes and smiled; she curtsied in return to the deepest, most respectful bows. She had learned well from Finwë. _He was right. They_ do _love me_. She lifted her head and shoulders beneath the weight of crown and jewels.

_She was steadfast and bore ice like an ancient tree unbowed._

The clouds had rolled across the sky like cotton batting. The lingering heat and humidity of early autumn was pressed beneath the clouds, and more than a few people surreptitiously fanned themselves in the close crowd. Every now and then, a gust of wind would rattle the rose trees and send the ladies' skirts flapping, but the heat that settled in its wake seemed even more oppressive.

Nolofinwë followed Indis, then Arafinwë. Their families were ranked behind them, ending with Indis's great-granddaughter Itarillë, who carried Finwë's crown upon a scarlet pillow trimmed in gold. All took their seats in the honored places, save Indis, who sat on the throne upon the dais, just below the Valar, and Nolofinwë, who knelt upon the stairs with his cloak laid out long behind him and his head conspicuously bare of circlet or crown.

Manwë's blessing went on overlong, and the people began to fidget in the heat. At last, Indis was invited to stand.

"People of the Noldor, your king Finwë has felt the necessity of the road of exile alongside his son Curufinwë Fëanáro. He has left me his regent with full authority, and within the bounds of that authority, I name our son, Nolofinwë Aracáno, to rule in his father's stead. Under his guidance, may the people of the Noldor again achieve productivity and peace."

As she settled the crown upon the head of her eldest son, he lifted his eyes to her. He was terrified. She caressed his cheek and took his hand to bid him rise to greet his people. His hand trembled in hers. As once their new life rushed at them from the dark horizon in the West, so a new era rushed at Nolofinwë now, if only he'd the courage to leap ashore. The first raindrop splashed upon the dais.

There was no dignity as the skies opened with a crack of thunder and the sward—already spongy with the autumn rains—quickly turned to mud. People rushed for the few tents and those who had worn cloaks despite the heat stretched them over as many heads as could fit beneath them. Those left without shelter dashed here and there and then rushed for the gates of the city. The tables for the feast—beginning to be set beneath the open sky—received a brief flurry of attention from waiters trying to spare them before being deserted, their cloths allowed to become sodden, the wind knocking over the vases of flowers, the wineglasses filling with water.

Nolofinwë led her firmly by the hand and found them a place at the edge of one of the tents. Someone must have been displaced to allow that, Indis realized, but was given no time to think before being swaddled in a dry cloak and absorbed into the protective midst of her people. The mud had seeped through her silken slippers and the edge of her gown was muddied; she allowed herself to shiver. She did not allow herself to weep. Nolofinwë looked out at the deluge and the tumult of his people. He squeezed her hand and strode forth to join them in the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the [Back to Middle-earth Month 2014: Seasons of Middle-earth compilation](http://b2mem.livejournal.com/tag/compilation). My prompt was to use the song ["Autumnal" by Arcana](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KWeBIfGOdkw) ([Lyrics](http://www.darklyrics.com/lyrics/arcana/raspail.html#6)) to inspire a story.
> 
> Translations of Quenya names are as follows:
> 
> Nolofinwë = Fingolfin  
> Arafinwë = Finarfin  
> Fëanáro = Fëanor  
> Turukáno = Turgon  
> Itarillë = Idril
> 
> "The Statute of Finwë and Míriel" is quoted from _The Later_ Quenta Silmarillion, _Laws and Customs among the Eldar,_ "Of the Severance of Marriage" in _Morgoth's Ring_ (pages 234-235 for the first quote and page 249 for the second quote in my copy). Christopher Tolkien discusses the uncertain "fictional perspective" from which L &C was composed in his introductory remarks to this text. Since, in my verse, Rúmil is the preeminent historian and one of the few willing to work with Valarin texts, then I have chosen to trace the origins of this document back to him.
> 
> The idea of Indis taking a role in the leadership of her people first came to my notice thanks to Elleth's wonderful story [Exile to Exile](viewstory.php?sid=2078) and has not left my imagination alone since.


End file.
